Moussaka and Mustafa
The barbed wire fence glowed a wavy red sweat from the heat and sizzled when touched with the damp morning grass. The heat grew hotter as Grabber opened up on it with his flame thrower until it was red hot and then walked right through it… just walked right through. It was unbelievable almost as much as it was believable. There he was, standing in front of the crowd of frightened and shocked little girls; they were newly freed sweatshop workers. Their recently fired boss was barely alive but standing on his feet while his flesh continued to melt off his bones from the heat bath Jack Grabber had just given him with his bathing gun. The burning man was trying to speak but he couldn’t enunciate while his lips were dripping. “I’ll do the talking now,” Grabber smugly growled, “You took advantage of these little girls… made them work 14 hour days for nothing… now they…”
“Not so fast, Jack.”
It was a voice from behind him. It was a voice that sang in the tune of Mustafa and he was not dead. Grabber turned slowly to see the only man who could almost physically scare him. Neither of them had a weapon. Mustafa had lost his during the earlier scuffle. Grabber had thrown his flame thrower high up into some trees after the rush of the barb wire stunt and the baptism by fire he’d given Mustafa’s second in command, Moussaka. Now they both stood, looking at each other, weaponless – or were they.
Mustafa began to lurch towards him, but Grabber surprised him by simply closing his eyes and not moving a muscle. Grabber thought of the women who had been in his life and he thought of those who hadn’t. Sweat developed upon his brown. Images of the little sweatshop girls flashed into his brain and it made him think of his daughter – she wasn’t real of course, Grabber had no daughter, but he had drawn pictures in crayon of what he thought she’s look like. Oddly enough, she was Korean in his mind. Mustafa was almost upon him, Grabber could smell the hummus on his breath. Grabber thought of Samir and the female orderly and just in time a nine inch blade he kept in his pants burst out of his capris and jumped into Mustafa’s thick, fatty, IPA’d filled gut. Grabber always kept it in his pants… the knife that is. The blade wasn’t particularly sharp and it didn’t need to be. He pulled himself from the big man’s gut, but left the knife in to make certain that he would be killed until he died from it.
“These girls don’t work for you anymore, Mustafa,” Grabber said with restrained fury. “They work for ME.”
A year later Jack Grabber was one of the richest men in Guatemala. A year later Mustafa and Moussaka were still dead.